/ˈfraʊ
sti/
Frowsty is an informal British term, stemming from frowzy, sometimes spelled frousy or frowsy. Frowsty often means a smell whose origin is unknown, often associated with “malodorous” and “musty smell” and “putrescence.” The Old English proh means “rancid” and most likely this word evolved into the current slang, frowsty. Frowsty often described people’s declining physical nature, as well as expired food, and sometimes to the more intimate, sexual corners. The word, in its many guises, began circulating in the 17th century, likely when curling-lipped responses were engulfed in the stench of poor sewer and drainage systems and medical necessities were far without call. Now, though, it received wide recognition for low-blow insults of the “sleazy” type or a “schlocky.” It can also be used to describe someone who is outdated. Some examples:
“The woman at her water well, springing her bucket, her petticoats awash with splashes of earthen water, doesn’t know the 21st century has running tap water and doesn’t care, the frowstiness of her life is calming, only to her.”
“As he rounded the corner, behind the rows of cafes and bars where they throw out their slop, garbage cans billowing and showing their mushy teeth in ripped plastic bags, Philtoph wrangles his corrugated boot into a bucket that had been knocked sideways. Before the moment canters him forward into the frowsty abyss he steadies himself and pulls out his boot only to find an oily tinfoil oozing some black foul substance that creeps in through shoe-lace holes.”
“They sat closely at the bar all evening, stealing the content from countless glasses, woozy from looking into each other’s eyes and proclaiming vastly incomprehensible tokens of gladness and bliss at the other’s arrival in their life. The gentleman, overcome with passion, seizes the woman’s arm and defiantly, albeit gracelessly, leads her to the men’s lavatory, where he lifts her skirt and is immediately struck with a frowsty smell. Feeling cheated, he looks at the woman sternly and says, “What’s the big idea?” They both sulk angrily to separate quarters of the city, one with a sopping douche, the other with one friendly hand.”
“You hang out with the frousiest losers, don’t any of them have jobs or bathtubs or girlfriends who respect themselves? You and your good time boys can go wallow in your own bile.”
“Look at that one! Boy is she a hoot, in her patent leather boots and strapless pink nylon bodysucking suit. And the hair, wow, I wonder where that frowsy is going later.”
“Everything necessary was blended together with precision – flour, salt, baking powder, in another bowl he had the vanilla, egg and milk combined. He thumbed through the baking book and stopped where a piece of scrap paper held his place. ‘Ah, butter, of course!’ He gathered one bar of butter and, while investigating became aware of something foreboding. ‘Of all the frowsty things in life! I can’t seem to keep anything fresh anymore!’ The butter had begun to turn a faint green and some cancerous looking miniature tumors with a fetid leak creamed around his table in unrecognizable hues.”
